


Black Dog

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because a ghost takes the form of someone you once knew, doesn’t mean they can be trusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to A for the speedy SPaG check, and Mab for all the cheerleading and hard work proofing the fic and making it fit for purpose!

You know it’s impossible.

Life has taught you time and again that things are _never_ what they seem. Your trust has to be wrenched from you with a snarl of displeasure and always – _always_ – a refusal to accept you might have been wrong.

Yet you trust this.

You trust him.

Which is peculiar, because you never trusted him before.

*

He comes to you one evening with a familiar swagger.

His eyes glint with a _fuck you_ and he lolls back in one of the seats, his ankle hooked over his knee.

He wears his old uniform and he can’t be a day over twenty.

Gone is the haunted look which tells the world outside that he’s been in Azkaban along with all of the others who murdered and pillaged their way through the war. Instead he looks confident, at ease. He looks free.

You think this must be trickery of the worst possible kind. You train your wand at him and surmise, “You are nothing more than a trick of the light.”

“I’m a lot more than that.” He laughs and winks as if you’re old familiars. “And you know it.”

“If you must haunt the living, I would have thought there are better candidates.” You sniff and turn back to your book. He has no business here.

When you look up again, he is gone.

*

When you meet with Potter he looks restless and uneasy. His chin is lined with dark stubble and he rubs his forehead as if it pains him still.

You watch his awkward movements and arch your eyebrow. “Are you unwell, Potter?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well. Grimmauld Place is full of ghosts.” He smiles, wryly, and you wonder if that’s just an expression or if Potter has been seeing things too.

You dismiss it with a snort and a wave of your hand. You take pains to ensure Potter doesn’t believe you care.

Perhaps if you still fought the tension between you would dissipate. As it is, it bubbles beneath the surface and pulls you under until the thoughts that flood your mind can no longer be suppressed.

You want to fuck him.

You want to stretch him out on your bed and watch the lean lines of his body bead with perspiration. You want to see his face contort with pleasure and pain.

You imagine his prick, thick and long and leaking at the tip. You imagine binding the base of his cock with a ring of leather and watching him writhe underneath you, begging for release.

“Patience,” you would say. 

You catch his delicious anguish on the tip of your tongue and savour the taste of salt and clean skin. You mark him with bites to his neck and torso and trace your wand along his body, drawing light droplets of blood which would make him gasp and arch.

“What are you thinking?” Potter looks curious and brings you back to the pub which fills with a hum of steady chatter. Instead of answering his question, you order another drink.

When you look back at him he’s staring at you in a way that makes you wonder if perhaps he would like to fuck you too.

*

When you leave the pub, you see him again at the crossroads. He’s hidden himself well in the shadows, covered with thick black fur. His eyes glow in the darkness and you curse under your breath.

He’s no more frightening as a mongrel than he is as a Gryffindor, cluttering up your space with his long-limbs and expensive robes.

You meet his gaze head on, and draw your wand.

His lips pull back to reveal white teeth which glint in the moonlight.

It could be a snarl, but you suspect it’s a smile.

*

“There’s milk somewhere, I’m sure of it.” Potter rustles around the large kitchen and you shake your head at the disorganised chaos of Potter’s living quarters.

“I take my coffee black.”

“Of course you do.” He laughs, relaxes and stops his feverish hunt. He pours two mugs of piping hot coffee and settles into one of the wooden seats. The table is too long for two, and you remember the days when the house filled with Order members discussing strategy over cups of tea and Molly Weasley’s scones and homemade damson jam.

“I wanted to see you.” Potter’s glasses flood with the steam from the coffee and he pulls them off, wiping them on his t-shirt and blinking. “I’ve been thinking of selling the place.”

“Indeed?” You look around the shambolic piles of crockery and the books which teeter alarmingly on the small table towards the back of the room. “It seems rather grand for one person.”

“There’s that.” Potter looks as though there might be something more, but he perches his glasses back on his nose and sips his coffee steadily before divulging more information. “It’s difficult to move on, living here. It’s too full of memories.”

“Unhappy ones, I gather?” You watch his brow furrow and focus on the way he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“For the most part.” Potter shrugs, his shoulders lifting and dropping in one hurried movement. He commandeers the sugar and puts a heaped spoonful into his coffee, stirring. “I want to remember them – but not like this. Do you think Malfoy would be interested? I don’t see him much these days.”

“Draco has enough ghosts of his own to contend with, without inheriting yours.” You roll your eyes at Potter’s ignorance and think of the last time you saw Draco in the Manor – scared witless and sleep-deprived.

“He’s struggling too, then?” Potter looks thoughtful and drums his fingers on the table. “Perhaps I should see him. We could help one another.”

A rush of jealousy floods your body and you grip your mug tightly. “I suggest you leave him alone. I am not sure he is inclined to receive visitors in his current state – even well-meaning ones.”

“You’re probably right.” Potter sighs, and you relax – disaster averted. “Do you ever think about the war?”

“Rarely, if I can help it.”

“I might have some news.” Potter looks eager, as if he’s dying to let you in on his secret.

“Good news, I hope.”

“We’re due a bit of that.” Potter laughs his agreement and sips his coffee. “I’ll tell you when it’s all finalised.”

“Very well.” You let Potter keep his secret for now, although you find your curiosity piqued. “Your lavatory is…?”

“Upstairs, second door on the left.” Potter waves you away and you make your way upstairs. This is really your opportunity to gain more insight into Potter’s life. You satisfy yourself that he is busy clearing up when you hear crockery clink together and the rush of running water downstairs.

You push open the door to one of the bedrooms, and see the duvet thrown back hastily as if Potter rose in a hurry this morning. His room is full of the same sort of clutter as downstairs – his broom perches precariously on his old Hogwarts trunk and tall Quidditch boots are dropped carelessly on the floor. His work tunics rest on a rickety chair in the corner of the room, angled towards the bed almost as if someone has been sitting there – watching him sleep.

You look at the other rooms, mostly filled with dust and books which haven’t been touched for many years.

All except for one.

The name on the door stands out in firm black script against a plaque of highly polished gold.

_**SIRIUS** _

Unlike the others, the room is well-kept and neat. It looks as if it has been recently cleaned and the bed is rumpled as if someone has been sleeping there. You pause in the doorway and take in the rest of the room, when you hear someone clearing their throat behind you.

“What are you doing?”

“I appear to have lost my way.” You turn to Potter and he frowns, clearly unconvinced.

“Second door on the left, I said.”

You smirk. “Old age, Potter. It happens to the best of us.”

His lips pull into a smile and he stands by to let you pass. When you look behind you, he’s standing at the door to Black’s room, staring.

*

“I think you want to bugger my godson.” Black looks pleased at the thought which is shocking, to say the least. “He’s a horny little beggar when he gets in the mood for some rough and tumble.”

“How precisely would you know?” You grit your teeth and recall the chair facing Potter’s bed. The idea of Potter doing anything with anybody else sends a hot wave of anger through your veins.

“I have my ways and means.” Black winks and stretches out on the sofa as if he owns the place.

You swallow. “It is no business of yours, in any event.”

“To the contrary. It is very much my business.” Black watches you too closely for comfort. Your defences are strong but part of you wonders if he can read your mind. “You like the power, Snape. Always have, always will.”

“Potter is hardly the next Dark Lord.” You snort and return to your books. “Mercifully.”

“But he could be.” Black’s eyes glint and glow strangely in the candlelight. “If only he knew how.”

*

You think about Black’s words when you next visit Potter.

He seems brighter than usual, and he tells you his secret in a giddy rush of words. When he mentions a return to Hogwarts. You know what he’s going to teach before he even says it and your body chills.

“Dark Arts.” His chest puffs out proudly and he looks to you for approval, perhaps imagining you might be impressed.

“It requires a particular kind of strength to resist the lure of Dark magic.”

Potter laughs and shakes his head at you. “I think I’ll be fine, thanks. I’m not about to start splitting my soul if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Foolish boy!” You snap at him and his mouth presses into a firm, angry line. “You are messing around with things you cannot possibly hope to understand.”

“You don’t know me at all.” Potter’s angry now, you can see it in the way his eyes flare and his cheeks flush with indignation. “I’m not about to change everything I believe. I’m not a stupid child playing with things I don’t get – I know all about the dangers.”

The magic almost hums around you. It’s enticing and arousing in ways you don’t even want to consider too carefully. Potter shows you his strength and you can almost taste the possibility – purity and goodness teetering on the brink of something darker – tainted with grief and pain.

“You have been changed by the war. You said yourself you feel unstable. When you are failing to get proper sleep and you surround yourself with ghosts of the past, you are malleable and exposed.”

“I’m not like that.” Potter sounds convincing enough and you almost believe him. “I don’t have any desire to practice Dark magic – I want to study it and teach kids to fight it, that’s hardly the same thing.”

“Nevertheless, you must be mindful of the risk. You must understand how magic of that nature can corrupt.”

“I know the risks – better than anybody.” Potter stands and turns his back to you, his tense shoulders a dismissal of sorts. “I’m not you.”

Your body chills and you leave, letting the door slam behind you.

*

You avoid Potter for a time.

He arrives at Hogwarts with a fanfare and the pupils immediately take to him – just as you guessed they might.

He quickly develops a reputation for being firm and fair, and your jealousy at his easy popularity rankles long after the school day draws to an end.

“You hate the fact he makes it look so easy.” Black greets you with a smirk and he dips his voice into a teasing whisper. “Isn’t it confusing hating somebody you want to fuck?”

“Piss off.” You growl and cast a spell which pulses straight through Black and hits the bookcase behind. “You have no idea what I want.”

“I think I might.” Black folds his arms and fixes you with the same maddening grin. “I watch you sometimes, at night. Wanking yourself into a frenzy while you think about Harry sucking your cock. You’d love to see him on his knees for you – filthy bastard.”

“You have no business watching me.” Your cheeks flush with heat because those are moments you never want anybody to see. Bile rises in your throat at the very thought of Black being party to those shameful, lonely climaxes where you spit out Potter’s name in a rush of desperate need.

“You’d be lucky.” Black laughs, and the taunting sound fills you with rage.

“Get out!” You repeat the words with a shout, sending spittle towards Black as you point at him with a shaking hand.

“Keep your hair on, Snape.”

Black leaves in the end, and you hear his whistling fade into the distance.

When you finally settle into bed that night, you think you hear him at the door to the room. He snuffles and pants, a low whine filling the room.

You close your eyes firmly and wait for sleep to come.

*

“Can I come in?” Potter pushes open the door to your rooms, looking sheepish.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” You keep your expression cool – not prepared to give him an inch.

The sight of him makes your cock twitch with appreciation and you shift in your seat, distinctly uncomfortable.

“I think you might have been right.” He looks downcast and takes a seat – right where Black was sitting just a moment before.

“About?” You move from your desk when your body is finally under control and settle next to him, offering a small glass of Firewhisky.

“About the Dark Arts.” Glum, he takes a large gulp of the offered drink with a wince. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“You appear to be coping rather well with your new role.” You watch him carefully and enjoy the light flush which colours his cheeks at the unexpected compliment.

“I thought so too – but teaching’s the easy part.”

“Is it indeed?” You snort softly but decide to let that particular comment slide. “Then perhaps you could share what you consider to be the _difficult_ part.”

“I’ve been reading books – practicing more stuff so I can do my job properly. I don’t like the way it’s starting to make me feel.”

“You find it seductive?” Your lips quirk with amusement at the idea of Potter surrounding himself with Dark tomes. As much as you might have had your concerns, watching Potter for the last few months have assuaged any doubt in your mind about the extent to which Potter is capable of being corrupted.

“In a manner of speaking.” Potter startles at the use of the word ‘seductive’ and the flush in his cheeks deepens. “Besides, I’m still not sleeping and I think you’re right – about being malleable. It’s getting harder to resist.”

“Yet I imagine you will continue to try – and succeed.”

“Honestly?” Relieved, Potter relaxes. “I spoke to Dumbledore about it all – spoke to his portrait, I mean.”

“Is that so? I assume he had one or two pearls of wisdom to share.”

“Not really.” Potter frowns. “He told me it can happen to anyone. You said as much yourself – about the way magic like that can pull you in without even realising.”

“Perhaps you should begin to listen to the living instead of the dead.” You think about your own nightly visits from Black and resolve to take your own advice.

“It was an odd conversation. He’s never suggested I might be a threat before.”

The thought of Albus saying that to Potter unsettles you, but you try not to show it. “I imagine he remembers his own experiences. You and he are not the same, however. I trust you will keep that in mind when you next find yourself worrying about these matters.”

“I suppose.” Potter stands, indicating the conversation is over. “Thanks.”

You simply nod, and watch the door long after Potter leaves.

*

Black visits again that night, just as you settle in for the evening.

“You should take him seriously, you know.”

“I highly doubt Potter requires my assistance.”

“He came to you, didn’t he?” Black takes his usual chair and looks longingly at the bottle of whiskey. “I told you he has potential – you know it too.”

“Potential?” You sneer and contemplate Black. “That is hardly the right word to use, given the circumstances.”

Black’s eyes dance with mirth and he glances at the dark skull on your forearm.

“Isn’t it?”

*

When Potter next comes to your rooms again, he’s dishevelled and harassed.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to end up hurting someone.” The worry etches his face which looks slimmer than usual. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days and his robes hang from his body in loose waves of material.

“Sit.” You watch him pace, before gesturing to the chair by your desk. “Explain yourself.”

Potter looks around as if someone might be with them in the room. “I dream about him all the time, now. I thought it was just Grimmauld Place, but he’s here too.” He rakes his hand through his hair and lets out a humourless laugh. “You’ll think I’m barmy.”

“Black.” You snarl his name and lean forward. “I urge you not to listen to spirits.”

“Then he’s real?” Potter’s face crumples and he drops his head into his hands. “I thought it was all in my head.”

“I can assure you he is quite _real_.” You try not to sound too aggravated. “Although I cannot imagine why he feels the need to visit _me_.”

“He told me that something bad was going to happen. He reckons I’m going to be the cause of it.” Potter lifts his head and you watch the small flames from the candlelight flicker and dance in his eyes.

“Sirius Black is dead. You require a decent night’s sleep, that is all.”

“But-”

“Here.” You take a small bottle of Sleeping Draft and press it into Potter’s hand, pushing aside the thrill his touch elicits. “Administer three drops of this before bedtime – no more and no less.”

Potter mumbles his thanks and leaves.

That night, Black is nowhere to be seen.

*

You hear the clamour from Potter’s classroom long before you reach the door.

You wrench it open, and find yourself confronted with children in uproar, scrambling back from the open cupboard door.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s his Boggart, Sir. Look at Professor Potter’s Boggart!” A young Ravenclaw points and the sight you see makes your skin crawl.

It is Potter, as you have never seen him before. His wand slides between his fingers and you recognise it instantly. His face is chiselled and sculpted, his cheekbones high. His eyes are closed and his face twists into an unfamiliar smile. The blood on his hands drips to the floor and his robes billow around him, thick black and edged with green and silver. The sound of Parseltongue fills the room and you bite back a low growl, facing the Boggart head on.

Blood red eyes snap open and meet your own. The shape of the Boggart begins to change, shifting and twisting into a large black dog with the same glowing eyes.

With a snarl you flick your wand at the Boggart.

“ _Riddikulus!_ ” The Boggart stumbles back under the force of the spell and you slam the cupboard door shut with a wave of your hand. “Class dismissed.”

The children file out, speaking in hushed whispers and you wait until the final one leaves before closing the door behind them.

“Thank you.” Potter speaks woodenly and refuses to meet your eyes. His face is pale and his mouth twists into a grimace. “I didn’t know that would happen, and when it did I couldn’t stop it. My Boggart has always been a Dementor.”

“Our Boggarts can change. That is the point of _shape shifters_ , something I would expect and expert in the Dark Arts to be familiar with.” You let out a huff of aggravation and use another spell to push the cupboard to the back of the room, twining the locks and chains around it once more until you are quite sure the Boggart is contained.

“What are the kids going to think?” Potter looks up at last, wild-eyed. “That’s going to be all over the school.”

“Then something else will happen and it will be forgotten. Your mind has clearly been filled with foolish notions. Have you been taking the Sleeping Draught as instructed?”

“Yes.” Potter nods but you’re not sure you believe him.

“Very well. Pull yourself together, Potter.”

“I will.” It’s odd to hear Potter speak with meek compliance and the response makes you frown.

As you leave, you hear Potter murmuring to himself.

“What the bloody hell was that, Padfoot? Thank Merlin Snape came in when he did.”

You look back into the room through a crack in the door, where Potter sits with a large black dog at his feet. Before either of them can see you, you close the door and stare at it for a moment, lost in your thoughts.

*

When Potter comes to you later that night to apologise, you shut him up with a forceful kiss.

He clutches your robes and you guide him into your bedroom and onto your bed, finally allowing yourself to acknowledge months of painful desire.

You always imagined Potter on his knees or breaking apart under deep lashes of your belt, his body arched in pleasure and pain and his cries filling the room.

It doesn’t happen like that, of course.

Instead you push Potter down with a tenderness that takes you both by surprise. You take your time giving him every pleasure, sucking his eager prick into your mouth and stroking his body with your hands and your tongue. You enjoy every gasp of pleasure and you let him come as he wishes – spilling hot seed over his belly which you eagerly lap at with your tongue to taste every part of him.

He uses his hand on you, stroking you to a satisfying completion and sliding his fingers over your torso which is mottled with scars and marks of a long-forgotten past. You allow him to spend some time brushing his lips over the Mark on your forearm, and then kiss him when he presses your foreheads together and whispers your name.

“ _Severus_. I swear to Merlin, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You want to tell him you’d be lost without him too, but sentimentality has never been your strong point so you simply kiss him again.

You watch him sleep, afterwards. You stroke your hand through his hair and listen to the quiet cadence of his breathing.

When you look up, inquisitive eyes meet your own.

“You are to leave him alone.” You convey your feelings with quiet fury, to avoid waking Harry as he sleeps soundly beside you.

The dog cocks its head to one side and barks.

It sounds strangely like laughter.

*

When you finally have an opportunity to see Potter’s rooms, he isn’t as welcoming as you might have hoped.

“I’ve got a load of marking to do.”

“Yet you are usually grateful for any distraction.” 

You lean against the doorframe and watch him work. His hair falls over his eyes and he pushes it back with a groan of frustration, dropping his quill onto the narrow desk.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m buggered if I can do any more tonight. I’m starting to go cross-eyed.”

“I’m often right.” You let him roll his eyes and reach out your hand. “Your living quarters are…”

“Messy?” He offers.

“Somewhat.” You smirk and let your gaze linger on the discarded socks and trousers at the bottom of the bed, enjoying his discomfort when you meet his eyes again. “I was thinking they look lived in.”

“That’s just a polite way of saying untidy.” Potter laughs and kisses your cheek. His lips brush your ear and his hands slide around your waist. “Didn’t you say something about coming here to distract me?”

“Yes. I believe my intention was to distract you _thoroughly_.”

“Filthy bastard.” You still momentarily, his words reminding you of Black. He pulls back and looks at you, his eyes shining. “I would have thought you’d take that as a compliment. I meant it as one.”

“Is that so?” You allow your worries to wash away and pull him close again.

He responds to your kisses with eagerness, confident and practiced. You wonder how many people Potter has been with before and the thought makes your body hot with jealousy. You grip his hair in your hand and kiss him with bruising force, dropping your free hand to his backside and squeezing firmly.

Harry lets out a low groan of pleasure and the sound sends waves of desire through you.

You pull him down onto the bed, and he covers your body with his own. He pulls at your clothes and runs his tongue over your neck, sucking and kissing. You turn your head to the side to give him better access and see a shard of mirrored glass and a picture of Black, smiling and waving.

With a groan, you drop your hand on the photograph to turn it face down and lose yourself in Harry’s kisses, thinking no more about it.

*

Three weeks later, Potter doesn’t pay his usual nightly visit.

You make your way to his classroom and find a group of Slytherins pouring over pages of parchment, filled with a familiar script.

“You say he was a Horcrux? Professor Potter had part of the Dark Lord _inside him_?”

“Not just part – his soul.”

“Where did you find those papers?” You watch one student flinch back while the others assess you with false bravado. You focus on one and grip him by the scruff of his neck. “ _Answer_ me!”

“They were just out on his desk, we didn’t steal them or anything.”

“Back to your rooms immediately. Twenty points from Slytherin!” You half wish Potter could hear you now, taking points from your own house to prevent his good name from being besmirched.

You enter Harry’s rooms, closing the door. You need time to think.

The notes are careful and unhurried. You sit at Potter’s desk and pour over them, noting with a gnawing sense of panic the tenuous links Potter seems to make between himself and the Dark Lord. You flick through the thick pages, noting how the ink is sometimes stained with tears and you finally push it to one side with a growl.

The motion reveals a shard of broken glass buried underneath the papers, and you pick it up thoughtfully. You turn the mirrored glass in your hands, remembering the smiling picture of Black and the similarly jagged piece of glass on Potter’s bedside cabinet.

As you study the mirror, you catch sight of a room which is all too familiar.

_“He’s got Padfoot at the place where it’s hidden!”_

You swallow and rise quickly to your feet, making your way to the school gates without a backwards glance.

*

The Ministry is dark and made up of slick marble which stretches with oppressive opulence across the floor.

The walls seem to whisper and in the distance something growls. The _pad pad_ of feet bound beside you, but when you turn to look there is nothing there.

You reach the Department of Mysteries still clutching the mirror fragment in your hand, and yank open the door.

Potter.

Perhaps you’re not too late after all.

He stands at the veil – and his hand stretches out to touch it. When he turns to you, his eyes are wild and his cheeks streaked with tears. He clutches his wand in his hand, shaking.

“Stay back!”

“Harry….” You advance slowly but he turns away.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“And you won’t.” You plead with him in a way you haven’t pleaded with anyone for a very long time. You consider binding him in place but you know he would shake off your spells with ease.

“I already have. Too many people to count.” Potter looks at your hand and his shoulders droop when he sees the mirror. He uncurls his free hand and shows you a second broken shard clutched in his palm. He had been holding it tightly enough to draw blood, and you wonder why this trinket means so much.

“A two-way mirror. Just a child’s toy. Move away from the veil, Potter.”

Potter doesn’t listen and looks down at his bloodied hand. “If I’d only remembered the mirror, he’d still be here.”

“I do not believe for one moment the spirit you have been seeing is that of Sirius Black. As much as I hated the man, he loved you. He would _never_ bring you here.” You notice Harry waver and you stretch out your hand. “You are needed at the school. You must stop this foolishness and come at once.”

“He said there would be more deaths. More people I love dying because of me.” Potter looks right at you, and he tilts his jaw with determination. “You saw the Boggart. You know what I was. I can’t allow that to happen.”

“And it will not happen. I will not allow it, and neither will you.” You move closer to him, trying not to make any sudden movements. “Foolish boy. What are you doing?”

Potter smiles. “I’m saving the world. I just wish we had more time. There are so many things I want to say to you.”

“Then tell me.” You almost reach him but before you can pull him into your arms a dog growls, and Potter stumbles backwards, his eyes wide with fright. 

He’s so graceful in the air, it always surprises you how clumsy he can be on the ground. You don’t think he wants to go anymore and his eyes glimmer with sudden, calm realisation. The hazy look of panic he wore so frequently lifts and in that one perfect moment his eyes meet yours and you know he sees you – and himself – with perfect clarity.

He smiles with joyful innocence and a laugh bubbles over from his lips as whatever held on to him for so long lets go, and the dark clouds lift from his body. You reach for his hand and he reaches back, a wild, hopeful grasp because it’s too soon and he wants to live so desperately you can see the desire thrum through every fibre of his being.

But he’s too close to the veil and you are too far to catch him. Before you can grab his hand, the veil envelops Harry with whispered screams and sighs.

You fall to your knees at the spot where Potter had stood, and his wand clatters to the floor next to your knees. You claw at the ground and murmur his name as if you can somehow pull him back from behind the veil – as if there is still a hope of _saving_ him.

There is only silence.

You look up, your body aching with grief and the large black dog moves out of the shadows, its lips pulled back in a macabre grin.

“You did this.” Your voice is only a whisper but it is laced with enough fury to make even the bravest of men cower. “You made him believe he could be a threat – a danger. _Why_?”

The dog shifts and changes, and it’s no longer Sirius Black. It’s something dark and faceless, hidden by the shadows.

“Because it was fun. Didn’t we have _fun_ , Severus?”

You lift your wand to attack but your mouth can’t seem to form any spells.

“I will find out who you are – _what_ you are – and then I will destroy you!” You spit out the words, your bitterness and rage all-consuming.

As you rise unsteadily to your feet, the creature steps out of the shadows.

“You will?”

You look up, and Harry smiles.

_~Fin~_

(please return to [livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/82242.html) to comment or leave one in both places.)


End file.
